Welcome Holmes
by STRONG Writing
Summary: AU where Sherlock is adopted into the Holmes family after about 14 years in an orphanage. Adventures or something. I thought it would be fun, the summaries always suck and the title is corny but I think I did fairly well. Rating because I talk like a ***
1. Chapter 1

** Good, cheesy titles are good. Right? **

**The sadness of finishing my last story was short-lived. I wanted to get this done. Like, I had a lot of little plot bunnies, and almost none of them were any good. So we have… Whatever this turns out to be. Points if you figure it out before I do! **

Sherlock was terribly un-amused. Well, bored was probably a better word for what he was feeling. But un-amused was a close second. You see, he had a bit of a change of scenery today. A couple had come into the orphanage a week before looking for a child of a relatively young age and somebody that their son could get along with well. The problem was that Sherlock couldn't have snuck out during their decision because he had lessons with some of the other children. He didn't need them, but he felt the need to attend in case the professor made some sort of a mistake. She tended to do that, and when she did, he would give her a few minutes to wrap her head around his explanation before pushing her to continue before they all died of old age. Because, really, 'a monkey with much less sense could understand this better than you could, woman'. As one could imagine, he wasn't the professor's favorite pupil. She wished he would just stay in his room, if he felt such need to correct all of her minute mistakes. He seemed to have no shame and was never heard softening a chastisement. Needless to say he was never granted such a courtesy either. It was only fair, he actually commended them for it. Anyway, during the lesson this particularly troubling couple happened to waltz in and observe. They caught him in the middle of an explanation, a long and drawn-out one at that, he made it as simple as he could and in as few words as well. Not that that helped her one bit, he later mused over dinner. Anyway, once he was done telling her why the proper equation would have been seven multiplied by ten over two instead of whatever idiocy she had spouted onto the blackboard the two of them clapped obscenely loudly. This not only disrupted the class but finally alerted Sherlock to their presence in the room, as well as a few of the other students, who'd chosen to daydream while looking out the window for something—anything—they could do besides this lesson. Sherlock brushed it off though, he always did. He didn't want any pitiful praise from anybody or anything passing through or otherwise, he was perfectly content fluffing his own feathers. He had enough ego in him to last the world another few decades of tyrants, not that he was necessarily a tyrant. At least, he wasn't trying.

To shorten a very long and _boring _story, they had been so taken aback by his knowledge that they had begun the work for his adoption then and there, much to his own displeasure. He would only be a few more years in that orphanage, and then he could go on his merry way. Or his dreary, dark-cloud way. Whichever he chose to describe it with.

And thus, today on this most terrible of days, Sherlock was being driven 'home' with the Holmes family. Apparently their own son, Mycroft, couldn't have been bothered to come and pick up his new 'little brother', for which Sherlock was grateful. Maybe this Mycroft would leave him in relative peace in his new home, since he was sure the Holmes parents wouldn't do. They pestered him the whole ride. Asking meaningless questions—to him, anyway—about his favorite sport team or about his friends. Sherlock wasn't known for his bright, sparkling personality. No, Sherlock didn't have any friends. He merely had acquaintances, and the occasional lackey. He watched the suburbs they passed—they'd left the city scene a while back—fly by out the window with only a minimal interest, and even that was questionable.

Soon the Holmes family vehicle pulled to a stop in a short driveway at the end of a cul-de-sac. It was a very average house in a very average neighborhood, but that was expected. His 'mother' and 'father' hurried Sherlock into the house as quickly as they possibly could, barely giving him time to collect his few belongings on the way there. They showed him around the house just as quickly, but he would memorize the place soon enough.

"Mycroft!" Mrs. Holmes shouted up the stairs, cheerful smile plastered onto her face. Mr. Holmes stood at her side, an arm around her shoulder. The woman had placed her hands on Sherlock's shoulders, his distaste for the contact was evident on his face, if they had bothered to look. He would try to get that under control, and he probably could. It wasn't often he was angry. "Mycroft, come down from that room of yours, and meet Sherlock!"

The sound of a chair scraping against a hard wood floor rebounded off the walls and down the stairs to meet their ears. A shuffling as something was moved out of the way, the creak of a door opening. At this point, in the suspense of this moment, Sherlock was very curious to see who his new brother would be. Would he be tall, or short? Muscled or lean? He could guess from the footfalls upstairs, but other than that he hadn't a clue, which lit his eyes just slightly. Watching the stairs intently, feeling what Mrs. Holmes must have thought was a reassuring squeeze on his shoulders, Sherlock restrained himself from leaning on the rail with tip-toes to see him sooner.

He wasn't as disappointed as he thought he might be when his brother came down the stairs. While a bit stocky, Mycroft had an air about him. One that demanded respect, and one that smelled of many sugary sweets. He had raised eyebrows and a bit of a pout on his face, though that seemed to be there naturally. He seemed equally curious as to who this new brother was. Sherlock had no doubt in his mind he would push all of Mycroft's buttons and try to break that snobby attitude he had, but there was also no doubt that they could have really been related. They shared the intelligent eyes, and the observant glances up and down each other. Though Sherlock wasn't pleased to be in this family, at least not yet, he thought that they might eventually grow on him. After all, wasn't a family something all of the other orphans had strode and wished for? Oh, if only he could see their faces. They would be outraged. Sherlock, of all people, chosen for a family before them. He doubted, now looking at Mycroft eye-to-eye, that they would have enjoyed this as much as he was bound to. Anybody else would crack under the pressure of this stare. But Sherlock was up for the challenge. Roughly the same height as they were, they could probably have kept up this prying staring contest for hours, possibly even days, Sherlock didn't need sleep, however their mother snapped her fingers.

"Now, Mycroft, this is Sherlock. I don't want you starting any fights with him, now. Why don't you show him to his room? You did set it up like we asked, right?" Mrs. Holmes smiled down at her sons, sure they would get along swimmingly, and pulled Mr. Holmes into the next room.

Mycroft nodded in Sherlock's general direction before heading back up the stairs. Sherlock followed after, keeping a steady pace, three stairs behind his brother. Nothing was said in the trip from the foyer to the bedroom. Once in the room, Mycroft gave him a condescending smile and left, closing the door behind him. Sherlock heaved a sigh when he noticed the decorating. There was nothing he despised more than what he saw on that wall. There were childish drapes over the windows in flamboyant colors, as well as the bedding being sprinkled with sporting equipment. At least, he decided, there was a desk in the corner. He could work with a desk. That was, really, all he needed. He stole a glance out the window, and saw the sun setting over the roves of other houses, almost identical to the one he was in. There were some shadows playing about in the street below and further off, but he didn't pay them any attention, getting right to laying out his things. He pulled from his bag a skull, a human skull he'd received from his science teacher once she'd gotten sick of him. It was a sort of going-away present. His going away, specifically. He'd also gotten a rock or two from the other students in his classes, but he didn't really take those along. He already knew exactly which types of rocks they were, it was obvious from the composition and the texture, so there wasn't a point. He had a striped scarf (at least two feet too long for him at this point) and a notebook he enjoyed carrying around. Everything else had been left behind as a reminder to his fellow orphans that he had indeed been there, and he wasn't some sort of sick joke on their account.

A knock on his door barely startled him from his thoughts, and he turned around to find Mrs. Holmes at the door. "Sherlock, it's almost time for dinner. I just thought I would give you a warning ahead of time. How are you settling in?" She asked.

"Just fine, thank you." He put the skull on the desk, the scarf next to it, and tossed the notebook across the room and onto the bed.

"About twenty minutes then." She nodded and smiled before she left. Sherlock thought that he could learn to like her and her husband, eventually. They didn't seem half as dumb as his peers or his teachers back at the orphanage. And his new brother was, once again, interesting. Yes, he might come to like this place.

**Woop woop. **


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock's first dinner with the Holmes family was a decent one. He was polite as he could be, and didn't eat what one might think too much. This was still a strange household and he didn't want to go against the 'strange household' manners just yet. Mycroft had no problems questioning him about anything and everything in front of the parents, however as soon as the meal was done he left the room and didn't talk to his younger brother for the rest of the night. Sherlock didn't doubt that he was listening to him from through the wall, though. Suburban houses tended to have thin walls, and they happened to share one. While he was talking to himself, he managed to restrain from punching the wall once just to give Mycroft a lesson in personal space. It wasn't that big of an issue, but he didn't want him nosing in on his business just because he felt he needed to know.

.

He'd slept relatively well his first night at his new home. And since it wasn't a school day, he was allowed to sleep late, but he didn't. He prided himself on being an early riser, when he slept at all. The shuffling about in the room next to his let him know that Mycroft was also awake. The Mr. and the Mrs. weren't awake yet, though. If they were, he imagined they would already by making breakfast for their sons. Sherlock kept himself entertained for an hour or so looking out the window, finding every squirrel and every crack in the sidewalk he could see. He would have the small rows of houses memorized and mapped out in a very short amount of time. From the types of vehicles in the driveways, he could guess what type of family it was. The minivan next door, for instance, suggests a family of at least four or more. The small silver car in the driveway opposite led him to guess they didn't have an children, and if they did they only had one, and not particularly young, there didn't seem to be a booster or a car seat in the back. One of the smaller houses didn't seem to have a car at all, but from the oil stains on their driveway he guessed they'd gotten up early for work or were on vacation. Something to that effect.

At around eleven, when Sherlock was fairly certain he'd gotten the neighborhood down to a T, Mycroft pushed open his bedroom door and nodded in his direction. The other occupants of the household were awake, now, he had heard them bustling about downstairs. Mycroft, however, hadn't left his room until now. Sherlock stood from the chair by the desk and followed his brother out the door and into the hall. He heard muffled conversation from the kitchen, as he suspected his parents were making breakfast, though probably for themselves. They had already guessed that the boys had been up all morning; since Mycroft woke early it was second nature to find him up when they finally woke themselves. Mycroft and Sherlock walked down the stairs and to the front door, neither bothering to inform their parents where they were headed, and they left the house. Out on the porch, and at eye-level with everything Sherlock had observed through his bedroom window, he could make more specific inferences. He cast a sidelong glance at Mycroft, who was also scanning the cul-de-sac with mild interest.

"It's a nice day, Sherlock." He stated simply. Sherlock nodded. They stood in silence for a few moments before they started off down the driveway. He assumed they were going to meet the neighbors, or at least he was to acquaint himself with them.

In a matter of minutes a couple of teenagers ran out of the house to the right of their own, tossing a ball back and forth over the lawn. One was shorter and blond, with a horrifying sweater on, and the other had similar genetics, with slightly longer hair and older. They were roughly Mycroft and Sherlock's age, he guessed. Neither of them paid them any attention, content with tossing the ball to each other. Mycroft started walking towards them, and Sherlock followed a couple of feet behind. These would be the people he would be living around for the rest of his young life, he might as well make the most of it, however little he planned to interact with them.

"John," Mycroft nodded to the shorter boy, who looked over in surprise, as if he hadn't noticed the two dark shadows on the other side of the street. "Harry," He addressed the next one. She smiled as they walked up, standing next to John, the ball forgotten.

"Who's this little guy?" Harry asked, extending a hand to him. Sherlock began to question her ethics almost immediately, not to mention she was obviously shorter than him. "Mycroft?"

"Sherlock." Sherlock answered, he was sure Mycroft wasn't going to.

"New kid, huh?" Harry whistled, removing her hand once she realized he wasn't going to take it. "Wheew, they grow up fast."

"He was adopted, Harry." Mycroft didn't much appreciate the joke, it seemed, but he wasn't as put off by it as Sherlock himself.

John, who'd remained quiet most of the conversation, piped up from behind his sister, "Why?" Sherlock shot him a glare, keeping much of it to himself so as not to scare this one away. John didn't seem to notice it, and instead looked in Mycroft's direction for an answer. Sherlock also looked at his brother, who shook his head sadly.

"The want for another person to baby, I suppose." He looked over at Sherlock, who huffed and looked away. His hair was ruffled by an unwanted hand on his head, Mycroft's. So he was going to plat the obnoxious big brother role after all, was he? Sherlock could deal with that. He would just need some work on the annoying younger brother role.

Harry shot John a look of disapproval, and her younger brother hung his head under her stern eyes. "Sorry about that, he's not… Good with strangers." She could say that, but he had the air around him of somebody with little to no shame, relying on his sister for such things, as right now demonstrated. She elbowed her younger brother in the side, and John looked up at Sherlock apologetically.

"Sorry about that." He managed, and Sherlock nodded. He was content with this apology. It wasn't the best, but it wasn't the worst. Average, like everybody in this cul-de-sac, he imagined.

He figured they could get along nicely, given time, but Harry was a bit too boisterous for his liking.

Mycroft nodded to Harry, who gave John a little shove in Sherlock's direction before walking off with the older Holmes. Sherlock watched them walk away, his boredom already showing on his face. John watched them walk off too, but in more of a nervous manner, as if he was going to call his sister back. He wasn't fond of the Holmes family, they were strange and cold. Well, at least the sons seemed to be, he hadn't talked to them.

"What's it like here, John?" Sherlock asked after a minute of looking in the direction of his house. The blond looked up at him, more in annoyance.

"Well, it's normal, for the most part. You know, families live here with their kids and all that. Figured it was a nice place to grow up."

"For the most part?" Sherlock's interest was piqued. John blinked, as if he had unknowingly let that piece of information slip his mind. Sherlock let escape a small smile of victory. It always was pleasing to know he had made somebody re-think what they had said.

"Well, we've got our share of mysteries. Greg's been trying to find out what's been happening to the dogs, and—"

"What is happening to the dogs?"

"Some of them have been going missing. Only the past few weeks, and over a certain interval, they're pretty unrelated, but he thinks something's going on. We sent our dog to our grandparent's house, just in case." John scrunched up his face in concentration, looking for something he may have missed. It was obvious to Sherlock that he was missing something, and it was intriguing.

"John!" A voice was calling from over the fence across the street. "John!" It came again, more urgent this time. John grinned and ran across the 'sac to the house.

"Yeah?" He asked, grabbing the top of the fence and standing on the tips of his toes to see over the side. Sherlock followed him over more slowly.

"John, who's that?" The voice, now that he could hear it better, was unmistakably female, and when he reached the fence and peered over, a young girl with light hair and bright eyes stood on the other side, making no effort herself to see over the fence. Her eyes flickered to Sherlock, who was watching her with interest that served only to make her nervous.

"Oh, this is Sherlock, Mycroft's brother." John replied. He looked to the side at Sherlock and then explained, "This is Molly Hooper. Her mother doesn't let her out of the fence." He beamed with pride, adding, "Harry and me tell her everything she needs to know. She's been helping Greg and Sally find the dogs, too. But closer to home." He chuckled, like he was clever.

"Harry and _I." _Sherlock corrected. John looked confused for a moment, but gasped when he figured it out.

"Oh, I see. It's very nice to meet you, Sherlock!" Molly exclaimed, reaching up a hand to shake his. Once again, he made no move to return the gesture, and she put it back down at her side again. "Oh, John! Has Greg found anything new yet? I've been thinking, and it doesn't seem like they're using a truck."

John nodded, "He doesn't think so either, but that's the only explanation he can think of considering the circumstances." He fell from the tips of his toes and his face scrunched once again in thought. "And if it isn't a truck, then what is it?" Sherlock was chalking all of this information, and their small, homespun investigation in his mind, sure to go over it later when he had time. Certainly not here with John and Molly chatting it up next to him.

"Could you go see him? I told him and Sally to come over today and we could put pieces together, and I don't know if they're going to or not." Molly asked, hooking her hands over the fence and pulling herself up on arms that were apparently stronger than then looked. She scrambled with her shoes on the fence and was nearly over it when a shout came from within her house.

"Molly Hooper! You get down off that fence _this instant!" _She automatically complied, looking back to her house. The windows didn't show anybody, but her mother had told her to get down. Must be watching her from somewhere. She would have to be more careful.

"John. Pssst." Molly leaned as close to the fence as she could. "John!" Her whispering was unnecessary, Sherlock mused, but it was making his day much more interesting. "Can I come with you guys tonight?" John looked warily at the new Holmes boy, but nodded.

"If you can. Wear something warm, because—"

"Obviously." Sherlock interjected.

"Oh shut up, will you." John shook his head. "You got that, Molly, something warm." She piped up a squeak and nodded. "Alright. I'll go see if Greg is up yet." John turned from the fence and looked over his shoulder at Sherlock, who nodded, and they both took off down the road.

.

This 'Greg's house looked pretty similar to every other house, if you didn't count the three separate chicken-wire fences on the lawn and yapping from inside. A paranoid-looking boy sat on the porch, holding a half-eaten doughnut. John walked up to him and waved, the boy waving back, taking another nervous bite out of his pastry. Jelly dribbled down his chin before he wiped it away.

"Greg, Molly doesn't think it's a truck either. She hasn't heard anything, but she's been keeping track from her end." John huffed, leaning on his knees, tired from running up the block. Sherlock was also on the verge of keeling over, but he wouldn't. He was here to make an impression on the others, not show up a panting mess on their doorstep.

"I know, Sally and I agree, we've been watching the road. Quarter past midnight we heard something, but it wasn't a truck and it passed out cul-de-sac right by."

"Oh, and Molly was wondering if you and Sally were coming over her place later. She invited you, but apparently you didn't answer..?" John questioned. Greg ran his fingers through his hair, making a face like he needed to shower, and quickly.

"Oh, uh, yeah. Sure." Greg answered, looking out across the lawn and then back to John. He looked up at Sherlock, just noticing his presence. Very observant, this one, Sherlock thought.

"Who's he?" Greg asked John, pointing to John's shadow. Sherlock tipped up his nose, was everyone here this ignorant?

"Sherlock, the new Holmes kid." John answered, picking himself up. "So, is Anderson coming tonight?" Sherlock wondered just how many children were on this block. If he ever met the last of them it would be too soon, he supposed.

"New Holmes kid?" Greg inquired, giving Sherlock a good sweep up and down. "They grow up so fast." He kidded. "Yeah, I can see it." He shrugged and finished his doughnut. "Oh, yeah, Anderson said he would come around. Shouldn't be hard for him to get out of the house, his parents are going to a meeting, he said they won't be back for a few hours after midnight. We've got time."

"Oh, that's just great." John groaned, and Sherlock wondered who this Anderson was, since nobody seemed incredibly glad to have him along, even Greg looked ruffled to give the news.

"Say, is Mycroft coming along?" Greg pondered aloud, scratching the back of his neck. He didn't seem to want to look at the two. Seemed perfectly content sitting on the step and looking off down the road like a lost child.

John shook his head. "Like I told you yesterday, he seems like he's got something better to do every night this week. It's a shame, we could've used his observant skill."

Greg looked up at Sherlock then, giving him another once-over. "What about you, Sherlock? Gonna come along?"

Having expected to go even if uninvited, Sherlock nodded his head. This may be the only interesting thing he'd ever be involved in in this neighborhood, and he wasn't going to let it slip by. Nor was he going to leave this case in the hands of such incompetents.

"Alright then, John, Sherlock." Greg held out a hand to him and stood from his seat on the porch, but pulled it back and put it in his pocket when it became apparent that he wasn't going to shake it. "See you tonight."


	3. Chapter 3

**Alright, when Dumbledore tells you to update, you update. **

After returning home from his little excursion with John (he'd invited himself in for lunch and Mrs. Holmes had asked him to stay, though it was apparent he wasn't going anywhere), Sherlock returned to his room to think through the evidence he'd collected while he was out. Dogs going missing, in this small area, that narrowed down the area they would have to search for a culprit. If they were stealing the dogs, they would need a vehicle for the transport of said dogs, which they had gathered was not a van, despite the advantages a van would have when dog-napping, it was obvious and bulky. A van would arouse the suspicion of the people in the cul-de-sac and wherever else this was occurring. No, it would have to be smaller and make less noise. It was probably a darker color, too, otherwise the children around here would have seen it. They seemed observant, for the most part, and he still hadn't met some of them. This wasn't much information to go on, but they would find more tonight. With the group it might be more difficult to piece it all together, but that was something he could deal with. They were decent, he figured they were worth his time.

His door opened again, and he turned to find Mycroft leaning against it and smirking in his direction. Before he could question the motives his older brother had, Mycroft said, "You're going with them tonight." It wasn't a question, more of a command than anything, although he thought about leaving the project just to spite him. No, that would never do.

"Yes," Sherlock replied, "Which is more than you can say. I heard they invited you along, as well." Apparently he felt that he was above their conquest. Mycroft nodded solemnly and returned,

"I have business of my own to attend to. I'll be happy to help when you land your man, but until then I'm afraid I won't be of much use." So big brother thought that he could pull some strings? No matter, he wasn't of much importance to the case.

"Next time, Mycroft, do knock when you enter someone's room. If not to uphold any personal ideals then to show common courtesy." Sherlock suggested. It was, in all its bitterness, only a suggestion. He didn't much mind the intrusion, there was nothing he could be doing that others didn't have the right to see, but Mycroft seemed to think he could do whatever it was he wanted, and Sherlock wanted to prove otherwise.

When his door closed he didn't look up to see if his brother had left, from the absence of the looming presence he knew he was gone. He continued to look out his window, impatiently waiting for the sun to go down. They'd planned to meet at eleven, just down the street by Greg's house. Sherlock glanced to the left, looking down on Molly's yard. Harry was standing next to the fence, and Molly was looking through the gaps in the planks. They were probably discussing her escape later. If they'd invited Sherlock to the conversation he could have already figured it out, instead they both looked pretty confused, though Harry appeared to be cracking a joke. To the right, John was sitting on his front lawn, talking on the telephone. If he could hear the conversation, Sherlock's day would be brighter again. Now it was just boring. Waiting was always boring. You couldn't do anything to dull that boredom because you were stuck waiting. He didn't try to numb it anymore, he'd just sit and wait. Harry walked away from the fence, they seem to have come to an agreement about how it was going to go down. Sherlock turned the chair away from the window to the wall. Mycroft was up to something in his room. He decided he would find out what it was later, he was much too busy doing nothing right now.

.

The sun had gone down some hours before, and Sherlock was still at his seat in the chair. He'd left it for dinner, and returned to it right afterwards. Mycroft hadn't bothered him since that afternoon, and he was grateful for that. The clock on the nightstand said ten-thirty, and he was getting restless now. He wanted nothing more than to speed time forward to the proper time. Maybe he would go outside now and wait there…

But wait… What was that out the window? He leaned forward in his chair (he'd turned it back once he'd counted all the paint bubbles on the wall) and squinted to see out into the dark. It was Mycroft, walking out the front door, making as little noise as possible and crossing the street, umbrella in hand. Oh, so it was going to rain? He made a note of that for later. Mycroft crossed the road and kept walking, off down the road at a steady pace as if it wasn't this god forsaken hour of the night and this was the most common thing in the world. Maybe it was. Sherlock couldn't say for sure, and he didn't really care at the moment, he just wanted something to keep this boredom at bay. Alas, there was still quite a bit of time left until they were supposed to go.

.

Sherlock stepped out the front door, pulling the scarf further up his neck and stepping down the porch steps into the drive. John and Greg stood nearby the minivan, hiding from the windows and the parent's prying eyes should they wake, no doubt. Sherlock had no doubts that his parents would remain asleep, since Mycroft had managed the same just a half an hour before. Greg, who'd gone without a coat or even a sweater, held his hands under his armpits in an attempt to keep them warm. It wasn't as cold as some nights, but it was still too cold for that flannel he was wearing. Sherlock joined the two of them, and John explained that they were waiting for Harry. Greg suggested they collect Molly while they waited, since not only was Harry late, but so was Sally. Not to mention the unspoken name none of them were too happy to hear, Anderson. John had told him earlier at lunch that he'd a face like a rat and hair slicked with so much product he might as well be a reflective surface. The trio walked to Molly's fence, and stood by for moments before they heard the swoosh of a sliding glass door open and close again. Molly surprised them all, running at the fence from the back porch and leaping for the top of the fence at top speed, pulling herself over after a loud crack of her sneakers hitting the wood. She rolled over the top and landed on one foot, John catching her before she fell. She thanked him breathlessly and fixed herself up.

"Look at you, out of the yard." Greg mused, folding his arms over his chest. He looked down the road and kept his eyes pinned on something coming up from the distance. Sherlock, John, and Molly followed his gaze, and all three saw a figure with hair poofing in all directions. A small afro of hair under a street light, the rest of a face shadowed by the mass. Sherlock found this bit quite amusing.

"Oh, Sally's here." John piped up, and Molly nodded next to him. Greg stepped forward to greet his friend, who stopped a few feet away.

"Who's this?" She snarked, pointing to Sherlock. He rolled his eyes and pulled his long coat closer around him. It was actually Mycroft's coat, but he'd taken it since he didn't have one of his own.

"Sherlock Holmes." He answered for Greg, who nodded. Sally looked disapproving, but she didn't say what was obviously on her mind. Instead, she shot looks around them in a circle and asked,

"Where's Anderson?" Greg, John, and Molly let out a collective sigh. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, wondering why they invited him if he was as bad as they'd come to agree on. "And where's that sister of yours, John? Don't tell me she's bailed."

"Harry'll be right out!" John snapped, looking to his house, where the light in an upper-story window was momentarily disrupted by a shadow moving behind it. Sally muttered something under her breath, and looked back to Greg.

"And Anderson?"

"He'll be here when he gets here, don't you think?" Greg replied, pulling a cracker out of his pocket. While he was stuffing his face with that and whatever else was in that bottomless pocket of his jeans, Sherlock realized that these people had really needed his sharp eye on their side. They clearly had no idea where to start or what to do. Looking at them, they seemed close to ripping each other's hearts out, not really something that was encouraged too greatly. Nevertheless, they needed him, and it was a good thing, for their sake, that he was on this case now.

"What about Mycroft? Is he going to grace us with his presence today?" She asked with a roll of her eyes.

"No, actually, my brother had other things to attend to." He said it more to let her know that he could hear every word she was saying than to answer her question. "He left about a half an hour ago, and I haven't seen him return."

It was then that a dark blue car rolled down the street. Molly jumped behind Greg, who sighed deeply, and John covered his face with his hands in an attempt to get rid of the scowl that was beginning to etch its way across his features. Sherlock watched curiously as another boy around their age got out of the passenger door of the car. He waved it away, and it began backing slowly out of the cul-de-sac.

"Anderson." Sherlock greeted, acknowledging his presence. In the moments between his getting out of the car and his walking over to them, Sherlock found himself wondering if Anderson had a first name. He didn't really care, to be honest, but it would be nice to know.

The boy looked him over with eyes full of malice, evident even in the dark. They had been very correct in their descriptions of him, his face was distinctly that of a rat, and his hair caught all the light of the post beside them. Molly came out of her hiding place and tried her hand at a convincing smile for their friend. John had removed his hands and held a look of indifference. Sally had the same pout as before, and Greg was hardly repressing his distaste for the boy. Sherlock was already feeling the tension in the air when Greg coughed.

"Alright, everyone, we're going to go over the crime scenes again." He instructed, and began dividing them into groups to explore the scenes.

"Do you actually know where the crime scenes are?" Sherlock asked dryly, "From what I understand you haven't actually seen anything happen." A few glares from their two newest members, and some startled squeaks from Molly later Sherlock was face to face with Greg, who seemed startled. John just looked like he was having a great revelation, as if that thought had never occurred to them.

"I'm sorry, do you have anywhere else in mind?" Greg asked, moving on, "Molly, with me. We're checking the Nicholson's yard. Harry, Anderson and Sally will work on that field behind Watson's place, stick together because it's a big area. John, you can show Sherlock around—help him out, y'know—you'll be checking around the Robinson's place."

"Why don't me and Harry check behind our place? I think we know it a little better." John asked, pointing out the obvious. He would, in truth, be able to notice anything wrong before anybody else.

"Harry and I." Sherlock corrected again.

"Right, thanks." John said over his shoulder, still waiting for Greg's explanation. Greg didn't give him one, seeing Harry walk out of the Watson family home. When she reached them, he repeated his message and sent them all off on their merry way. Harry didn't look very enthusiastic about going anymore once she learned she was with the fish-faces, but she didn't object, it was important they crack this case. She seemed much more practical now, Sherlock noted.

"Alright team, ready to go?" When nobody spoke up, and Molly nodded, Greg ate another cracker and continued, "Then let's head out."


	4. Chapter 4

**Alrighty, I've neeeeearly finished my homework. Seems as good a time as any to write the next chapter. That's all the A/N time we have today. **

As John led Sherlock out to the field, starting to doubt Greg was the smartest kid on the block as he'd established himself, he was asking him questions Sherlock doubted had an actual purpose. How was his first day here? Did he have fun? How were his parents treating him? Was Mycroft actually nice? Sherlock avoided the full front of the questions and answered vaguely what he didn't want to. Eventually, John seemed to get the message, and he stopped talking altogether, but he hummed occasionally.

When they reached the field, John started pestering him again, telling him about the field, and what the kids on the block all thought was done there. They figured it was some kind of sports field a while ago, but then people built houses and forgot about it. Sherlock nodded absentmindedly, kicking a bottle in front of his feet and watching it roll down into a small dip in the ground. John was tossing old flower pots a small distance away; Sherlock heard the thuds and them shattering on the ground. He snapped quickly, "Stop destroying the evidence, John!" He shot John a glare and tightened the scarf around his neck. John blinked, and then backed away from the pile of flower pots to work on something else. Sherlock heard him rustling about in the tall grass off by the woods and decided to leave him to that. There wasn't much he could mess up over there. Sherlock focused, again, on the ground in front of him, looking for anything that might be out of place. He noticed a small white ribbon and a hairclip nearby, but figured it wasn't important to the case and kept walking. A couple of feet away, he could see a crate or two. Without much thought, he walked up to them and climbed up on top. Looking back over the field, he had an aerial view of the whole place. With a small sense of empowerment, he smirked to himself. Remembering what he had to do, though, he bent down over the rest of the crates and searched them.

John plowed through the field at about as fast a speed as he could manage, and looked up at his companion. "Sherlock, what are you doing?"

Sherlock didn't look at him, simply continued crawling among the boxes looking for something. "Looking for clues. What did you think we were here for?" He toppled one of the crates, and then stood, brushing off his knees. "Come on, I bet Greg's already found something." He hadn't taken too much of a liking to Greg, though it was apparent he would have to if he wanted to stick around and finish the job. His opinion was only made on the account of his failure to explain to Sherlock all of his motives before sending him off into a random area looking for clues—when none of them really knew what to look for. He hadn't really gotten too fond of anybody else, either, though John seemed bearable. Didn't question him on anything important, shut up when he was told, followed orders. That Molly girl seemed alright, too, and Harry was okay by him so long as she didn't tread too far into Sherlock's business.

"And if he has, that's good, right?" John started following Sherlock once he took off further into the field, further than John had explained was their responsibility.

"Oh, sure, it's great. But not if he's found something and I've nothing to show for it." Sherlock shook his head and stopped himself at the base of a tree.

"So you've got an ego on you, that it?" John asked, sweeping around the tree and looking down at the ground.

Instead of answering his question, Sherlock said, "You know what would make this easier? If we had a dog with us." He hoped he wouldn't have to explain that to his accomplice. Sherlock, seeing that John was already covering the ground, he craned his neck back and looked up into the branches of the tree. There didn't seem to be anything strange in it, nothing popped out at him like it would if it was there. Then again, it was in full bloom this time of year and there were leaves in the way. "John, give me a boost." John looked up at him in confusion, then up at the tree. He sighed, and knelt down with his hands out to hold Sherlock's foot as he climbed up. Thankfully his coat didn't get caught on anything. He pulled himself up onto a low branch, the tree looked higher off the ground from up it's trunk than it did from the ground, at which point he pulled his eye away from the ground and started looking everywhere else. Now that the leaves were more out of the way he could see the branches themselves a lot better, spying a beer can and a rolling pin right away (though what it was there for was anybody's guess). Upon closer inspection, there was a small amount of blood on the tree, and a length of rope caught in the upper branches. He wasn't as much surprised as he was confused. If he tried to place them, they wouldn't be here, and they wouldn't be with this case. At least, not the blood. No, that was a clue for another day's mission. The rope, though, looked battered and ripped in several places. Almost like canine teeth had tore through it many times over. Sherlock pulled himself up to a standing position to look over the edge of the rope's branch. On top was a small number of pieces of shattered glass, and some stale crackers. _Hm_, he thought, _Greg must have dropped by earlier._ There didn't seem to be anything else in the tree worth looking at, so Sherlock slung his arms over the lowest branch and dropped. He fell backwards when he landed, but John helped him up.

"Anything interesting?" John asked curiously, blinking up at the tree.

"A rope, and some glass. Not much glass, but enough to suggest that—"

"They busted a window?" John suggested, slipping his hands into his pockets and looking expectant.

Sherlock nodded. "How did you guess?"

"'S not a guess. One of the dogs was stolen from inside the house. They broke a window, but the alarm didn't go off and nobody saw anybody. Dogs didn't bark, and then the next morning they were gone." John explained, watching Sherlock's facial expression change from one thing to another, and then a range all at once, before coming to rest on intense concentration.

"The size of the pieces and the amount suggest it was in somebody's hair or on their clothes.." Sherlock stated, turning back to the cul-de-sac. "John, this is all we'll find here. We've been searching for a while now, that's the only real evidence we've got." He made a note to make sure he got all of the details next time before looking, it would make the whole job immensely easier.

John nodded, and they left.


	5. AN

**My apologies, I hadn't gone back and checked the third chapter before I wrote the fourth and sent Sherlock and John to the wrong place. ************************************ **

** 'F I'm not too busy/lazy tomorrow I'll try and go back and fix that… Uh… **

** Sorry again. **


	6. Chapter 5

**Been a while, 'eh guys? **

**Well, back to our regularly scheduled (by that I mean what are schedules?) fic, thing. **

Sherlock and John made their way back to the cul-de-sac in relative silence, with a cough or a whistle from John on occasion. It was clear he was getting bored, but if he was going to do that he shouldn't have come along, Sherlock thought. He saw nothing of interest himself, which meant things around here must be painfully boring. He also saw nothing of relative importance to the case at hand, which was pretty disappointing. Sherlock just had to hope one of the others had found something. It was doubtful, though, that the culprit had gone in several directions, especially considering it was a densely packed neighborhood around their street, and trying to carry or drag a dog along any way other than the field would leave the possibility of being spotted. They could have driven, but then there would have been a car spotting sometime earlier.

He was drawing up a blank, though he had a pretty good idea of the escape route he knew nothing of the person responsible and had no way of gaining this information. He wondered momentarily if anyone in the neighborhood had bothered calling the police. Incompetent as they were, he had to admit it would be easier with their equipment and surveillance.

John had to jab him in the ribs to snap him out of his thoughts, and to notice he had been about to walk into Molly's fence. The meeting place wasn't deserted, Anderson and Molly had returned, and dutifully informed John that Harry had gone back home. John muttered to himself about how much trouble he'd be in if she'd woken their parents on her way in. Sherlock scanned the road and houses directly to either side. There was no movement and no sound from any direction, though it would be hard to hear if John wouldn't stop talking. Just as he was about to shut them up, Greg and Molly came into sight from behind a house down the road. They ran towards the light post, waving. Sherlock hoped that meant they'd found something useful, but he was almost sure it meant that they just wanted to make their friends aware of their arrival. That was everyone, Sherlock sighed. They'd been the only ones to come up with anything useful, then.

"Anybody find anything?" Greg asked, stopping beside Sally. Molly trudged up behind him, panting. They looked expectant, looking over the faces in the crowd. Sherlock saw their faces fall when nobody stepped forward and spoke.

"We did!" John exclaimed, pushing his hands into his jacket pockets. "Tell 'em , Sherlock."

He rolled his eyes, and began, "I found a torn rope and shattered glass in a tree, back in that field over there. Not surprising, it was probably their escape route. As the least occupied area of the neighborhood, they wouldn't be spotted as easily and would be less likely overheard. I imagine they used the rope to get at the dogs, considering the rips in it, and the glass was from crawling through the broken window. I couldn't find anything else, I had hoped you all would be more helpful." Anderson scoffed, and John looked almost pleased, as if he'd helped find the clues himself. Well, he supposed the greater strength of his partner was important. He'd let it go.

"Well, we'll just have to go back and look again tomorrow, when we can see better. If we're able to convince our parents we're playing ball or something." Greg decided, nodding to the others. "Alright gang, head on home and we'll meet tomorrow to search the field more thoroughly."

The rest of the kids nodded and murmured predictions to each other in low voices. Sherlock wasn't in the least interested in what they were saying, he'd thought up just about every possibility, the most likely being they wouldn't find anything else. Then again, as unlikely as it was, he'd been wrong before. Sherlock waved dismissal and walked back toward his house, not bothering to acknowledge the 'goodbye's of all the others.

Back inside the house it was much darker, not that he had a problem with the dark. It meant that everyone was still asleep and that he wouldn't be caught. He didn't hear any noise from his brother's room, either, which meant that he was still out. Once he'd climbed the stairs and made it back into his room, Sherlock sat back in his chair and stared out the window. This was a brilliant vantage point after all, and he was going to use it. From here, he could see every route a car could take down the cul-de-sac, and he would see anybody walking on the side of or down the street. He watched as John walked into his house, and as Greg helped push Molly back over her fence. He watched Anderson call for his ride, and Sally was already gone. Soon only Anderson was left, and he seemed pretty upset. Good. Sherlock already knew he couldn't stand the rat.

.

After about two hours more of watching an empty street and scribbling on his notebook and the seat of the chair with a black pen he'd found rolling around under his bed, Sherlock finally saw movement down the street. To his disappointment, it was only Mycroft, returning from wherever Mycroft had been. He was going to ask him, sometime. And when he asked he was dead set on getting an answer. He heard his brother's heavy steps coming up the stairs, heard his brother's door shut, and heard the scrape of his brother's own desk chair scrape against the floor. So there was no carpet in there. It made sense. Somebody like Mycroft just seemed to demand wooden floors.

Turning his attention back to the window again, he noticed something he'd overlooked before. There was a hole in the back of Molly's fence. Sherlock leaned forward in his chair to get a closer look without having to stand. He wasn't sure how important this fact was, but this hole was big enough to walk through and hidden enough from view of the house that nobody inside would be able to see it. Being adjacent to their house, however, he had an angled view. What Sherlock did know was that Molly knew the hole was there, she just wasn't letting on. She could have gotten out that way, any time she liked, but instead she kept herself holed up and hopped over it instead of taking the easy way, and that didn't scream "Molly Hooper", that screamed something else entirely. Though he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

**Aaaaand that's all for this chapter. **

**It's, uh, it's started writing itself, now. **


End file.
